Masquerade
by colossally abundant numbers
Summary: The only survivors following a large-scale war, America and China accidentally travel to the past, but switch bodies in the process. How will America manage the Opium Wars and China handle America's Civil War?
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings:** A lot of swearing, mainly on America's part. Can't blame him though, he's pretty frustrated with the state of the world.

* * *

_The real problem was that humans found it too easy to squabble, too easy to hate. _You're different,_ they would snarl, _and I don't want anything to do with you._ Because difference—and deviation from the norm—was unacceptable, and humans were just humans, right?_

"I can bet you the entire state of California that that's not possible," America grumbled. He should never have agreed to drink with China—that _baijiu_ shit tasted very much like toilet cleaner, and whatever foods they were using to wash the alcohol down were just not helping...

"I'll gladly take you up on that," China chorused, shakily reaching for the ink pen in his pocket. "Watch and be silent," he says, and starts scribbling madly on the tablecloth.

When the Plutonians had attacked, with technology no better than earth's (they didn't even have nukes) and population no larger, the citizens of earth had continued with their infighting. continued, continued, until the Plutonians, bastards that they were, had manipulated several earthling nations into turning against each other.

And so here he was, sharing a final drink with China, each silently congratulating the other for having lived so long, each bitter, but not mourning, because they no longer knew how to mourn.

"What the hell is the point of the ellipsis at the end?" America asked, lifting the tablecloth to examine China's writing, not caring that the plates of food (glorious, glorious food) were slipping and falling.

"Don't question what I'm doing!" China grumbled, "I told you to be _silent_!"

"Fuck this, my head hurts too much! You—you're trying to poison me, aren't you? What the hell is in this thing?" America yelled, gesturing wildly to his drink.

China didn't respond, and chose to shake the tablecloth he was scribbling on in annoyance. Could America not _shut up_? He was not the only one with a splitting headache, and he was not the only one who hadn't slept for nearly a week, half-crazy and half-sick, paranoia and confusion and hollowed eyes everywhere...

But they wouldn't see this anymore, not if he could help it.

(No, they would see a past that was every bit as bloody instead.)

With a final shake of the tablecloth, the two of them fell forward, power of the drink in their veins, no longer aware of the world...

—

When America awoke, he was distinctly aware of the horrible pain in the base of his head. What had he done last night? Oh, yes, he'd been stupid enough to go drinking with China, stupid enough to celebrate a non-victory when he should've been fighting. Fighting, and fuck, he'd squandered an entire night...who knew how his countrymen were faring?

America leapt off the bed, reaching for his glasses out of instinct. Except they were not there. He glanced around the room, trying to search for them, only to realize that he was—he was seeing _clearly_. Fuck, what _had_ happened last night? They'd drank that disgusting _baijiu_, and ate some pastries, which had been nice, but had done nothing about the bitterness of the alcohol, and—

Fuck. America had made some bet in his drunkenness, something about the state of California...

America glanced down, trying to remember. What had he bet last night? Was it real, was all of this—something was off about...his bed covers. Since when had he ever had silk red bed covers? He'd remembered phasing out all the red in his closet during the Cold War, because fear and paranoia had taken over his mind, and he nearly laughed at the hysterics of it all—that red, a mere color had scared him so.

It wasn't real, just a damn _color_, and now he was seeing it everyday, mostly his own, but sometimes he'd remember—

"_You're not a fucking magician, so don't delude yourself. If you can make us a goddamn time machine, I'll—I'll—"_

"_You—you really want to make a bet?"_

"_I can bet you the entire state of California that that's not possible."_

A time machine. And he wasn't at the _jiudian_ China had brought him to, so did that mean they'd succeeded? He was about to swear some more when he heard a sharp knock at the door.

Except this wasn't his house—fuck—where _was _he? It took him a good ten minutes to find the door, and when he opened it—

England.

Fuck, it was _England_, and he was so sure the nation had disappeared in a crazy showdown with Russia, and here he was, looking like he hadn't had a single _scratch_ on him.

"England..." he breathed, not noticing that his own voice sounded very, very off, "You're alive, all this time, all this fucking time and you couldn't have given me a heads up?"

"China," England greeted, voice flat, "Of course I'm alive. What made you think otherwise?"

"China?" America asked, "He's alive, man, drunk as hell last night, but alive and kicking. And you," America laughed, voice bordering hysteria, and grabbed England's shoulders, wrapping the nation into a hug. "Everyone thought you were dead."

Then he realized. A time machine. A _fucking_ time machine, and that was why England was alive, why England was at his door, dressed in—pirate gear? Just what year were they in again? China hadn't mentioned any exact years, and he hadn't asked, being too tired and drunk and caught up in his disbelief to bother.

"So England," he mumbled, pulling away because this wasn't the right England and it looked like this England-of-the-past was freaking out over his sudden show of affection. "What brings you here?"

England glared at him, nose tingling at the stench of alcohol. "I think you should know already. I told you I expect an immediate release along with an apology. If you don't deliver..."

America stumbled back, confused. An immediate release? Of what? He was clearly at some time where England was still feeling hostile towards him, still...he brushed his hands through his hair, hoping to calm himself down. Wait. His _hair—_there was something different about it—the texture was—it was—his hair was _long_ and it was dark and—since when had his hair ever been black? And then England had mentioned China at the door, as though he were greeting him...

"Wait, England," America began, hoping to buy time.

"If you don't deliver...I will be forced to bombard Canton."

Bombard Canton? Canton, that city...America remembered how he'd been hiding out under it all last month, because it was too fucking dangerous to leave. His leg had been broken, and he'd been really, really glad that they were working together at last, even if they were the only ones left. China had built a massive underground network beneath Canton, just like the one beneath his San Francisco hills, and they'd hid there, hid the wounds that were growing by day and drank their sorrows away by night.

"You're not bombarding anything," America snapped, unable to help himself. It was illogical to blame this England, wasn't it? This England didn't fucking know, didn't understand just how important it was...

"So that means you'll be releasing them, hm?" England smiled, but America realized it lacked the warmth he usually saw on England's face.

"Right, whatever," he mumbled.

England looked at him expectantly. Then he took a step in and asked, voice leering—"You're not going to invite me in, China?"

America stared, confused, but moved aside to allow England in. England hadn't ceased with calling him China, so either England thought he was China, or he actually _was_ China. Either way, he had to get into contact with the real China. He reached for his pocket instinctively for his cell phone—and then realized that there were no phone towers back in the day. No damn phone towers, and cell phones would surely be useless.

"Fuck," he mumbled, annoyed at himself for forgetting that he was in the past. When had telephones been invented again? 18—1870 something? But what year was it now?

"I didn't know you were one to swear, China," England stated, "Or that you'd picked up on an American accent."

"Well," America began, feeling frustration creeping upon him, "Clearly you don't know anything about me."

If he was being forced to masquerade as China, then where was the _real_ China? The only logical conclusion he could come up with was that China was, well, him. That meant he had to contact himself somehow, so...

"No," England agreed easily, "I obviously don't. After all, I didn't think you were the type to go back on your word. Remember that treaty we had a decade or so back?"

A treaty that China had made a decade or so back? Well, this was his chance to figure out what year they were in, hopefully without weirding England out.

"Remind me again, England," America began, "we had a treaty? When was this?"

England narrowed his eyes. "The 1842 Treaty of Nanjing. Forgetting already? Or is this just your attempt at wheedling—"

A decade from 1842, so it was now close to the mid-1850s? Which meant that telephones hadn't been invented yet, which meant that if he wanted to contact the real China now, he was _fucked._ How else had they communicated back in the 1800s? Telegram? He glanced around the room, trying to assess if he should leave England alone in it. The room was sparsely furnished, so maybe it wouldn't matter? "I need to do something," he announced, "Stay here if you want. Or come with me, whatever."

He turned towards the door, and heard England say, "Are you usually this rude with your guests? I just arrive, and you immediately make your exit."

"Well," America snapped, not bothering to face England, "I already told you that you don't fucking know me."

He slammed the door behind him.

—

America wanted to gloat—the conversation had been so sickly sweet it was disturbing, and England was probably still reeling from the shock that anyone would _dare_ to be so rude to him. Well, fuck this England and his Victorian era politeness, America decided, because whatever beef he was having with China in the late 1850s, America just didn't give a shit. His future—their future was in the balance, and the disunity they'd shown year in and year out had been the very reason for their current predicament.

He realized, far too late, that there were no telegraph lines in China in the 1850s.

_Damn_, he growled, sickened. He'd spent the past half hour wandering aimlessly around the city, and it was all for naught. He needed some fucking alcohol, but he couldn't, he just couldn't waste another night like that. How the hell was he supposed to get into contact with the real China? He remembered the Treaty of Nanjing, mainly because he himself had signed a similar treaty with China two years later, so handling England wasn't going to be a problem. And...if he'd signed a similar treaty, perhaps it was possible that the real China in his body would be around here somewhere!

He just needed to—

"China." England again? Fuck, how had the nation found him?

"Don't you think," England began, grabbing a hold of China—America's arm, "don't you think it's more than a bit rude to leave your guest inside your house while you wander around mumbling like a drunkard?"

"Hey!" America protested, pulling his arm back in anger.

"In fact," England snorted, "I don't even see why you're bothered by opium when it's clear that your problems are alcoholic in nature."

"Look, fuck off, will you? I gave you what you wanted—"

"You've hardly apologized," England said, voice grave, "and that was one of my conditions, was it not?"

"And I _will_ apologize," America snapped, placing an emphasis on _will_, "if you'll kindly stop _following_ me."

"Leave you alone?" England asked, lips twisting into a sneer, "You don't think we've left you alone long enough? Do you—" England lowered himself to America (China)'s height "—do you really think isolationism would do you any good? Because you really know what you're doing, right? You, piss drunk and half high, standing in the middle of the—"

"Look," America growled, "I need to talk to America." And he wasn't half-high, damn it, even if he'd just smoked some pot a couple nights back. China had frowned with disapproval, but he hadn't given a fuck, because what was there to care about anyway? Everything was shot to hell and back, and even all the fighting they were doing was useless, pointless, and simply _disgraceful_.

"And why, pray tell, would you need to speak with that dastardly fool?"

America snorted, echoing England, "And why, pray tell, would _you_ need to know? I'm going to look for him, and if you want your damn apology, kindly stay away from me."

America whirled around, annoyed. This England was so fucking smarmy and condescending and _arrogant_ it was damn difficult to keep his composure. Even the England in his memories had never been quite like _this_.

To make matters worse, he had no idea where he was going—he could only hope that the real China was hanging around somewhere nearby, as he vaguely remembered himself signing a couple treaties in China close to this time. It would be highly unfortunate if he had just left...But then again, England had asked him why he would need to speak with America, not questioned his sanity in wanting to do so, which meant that America, who housed the real China, _was_ probably nearby. America shook his head with excitement, maybe there was a chance, some _fucking_ hope after all!

—

The last five hours had been a disappointment, because he saw no signs of...himself. Perhaps he really _had_ left, perhaps he was hiding in some difficult-to-find location, perhaps...America closed his eyes, kneading his head, it was time to go back. Go back to his newest temporary house, one of China's numerous old residences, go back and deal with a disgustingly annoying England.

As soon as he'd opened the door, he saw a familiar scene—England was sitting at the nearest table, sipping tea with an eerie calm.

"Have fun?" England asked, nonchalant.

"Fuck you," America snarled, bitter at the wasted afternoon, the wasted day, and the piss poor excuse of an entire week. Then he looked around—Well, this scene was familiar, wasn't it? Tea, tea, and more fucking tea, except this time he'd actually have to drink it, before England started to accuse him of being a fraud.

"You shouldn't drink so much, China," England replied smoothly, "A drug habit is more than enough, don't you think?"

America ignored England's jab about his alcoholism and yelled, "Who the hell said you could help yourself to my tea?" Well, technically it wasn't _his_ tea, but what kind of guest just grabbed whatever they wanted from the host's house without asking? He was sure that England and China had never been close enough to share food just like that.

England shrugged. "For someone who is rude enough to leave the room when a guest is over, do you really have the right to complain about me helping myself to some drinks?"

America was about to yell back something equally rude when he realized that his (or, he supposed, China's) cell phone was _vibrating_. Vibrating, when there were no phone towers. What the hell was going on? He quickly sat down and slid his phone out from under the table, glancing at it surreptitiously. It was a text from 'America'.

02:30 # call me. we have a problem.

No fucking kidding, they had a problem. He glanced up at England, who was looking at him oddly. And on top of the _problem_, he had a mad England _staring_ at him. America hastily grabbed a teacup and looked around the collection of tea bags England had amassed on the table. China had been a particular fan of _oolong cha_ lately, but who knew what the nation liked back in the 1850s? _Longjing cha, _perhaps? He hesitated, and realized that England was still staring at him.

America looked up, meeting England's gaze, and snapped, "Did anyone ever tell you it was impolite to _stare_?"

"It does not take this long to select a tea," England stated evenly, "Or are you no longer interested in _hong cha_?"

"It's not any of your business how long I take to select tea. Clearly," America cleared his throat, realizing that he was actually going to be lecturing _England_ on how his tea-drinking was all wrong, oh, it was fucking _hysterical_. "Clearly, you have absolutely no taste in tea. _Hong cha_," America continued, fully realizing he was making up a lot of bullshit, "should only be drunk at a wedding ceremony, when couples are about to be joined together in life and death."

England raised an eyebrow, and America shuddered when he realized the cell phone was vibrating _again_.

Forget rudeness, he thought, rising. "Excuse me for a moment."

But England didn't miss a beat, and stood at the same time, grabbing his arm. "I've had enough of this, China. We will sit down and _talk_, like civilized beings."

America pulled back, anger rising. "You wanna talk? You who have been stealing my tea—you fucking tea thief! You know what, you want to talk—talk to this guy—" He speed-dialed the real China (apparently his guess of '1' was correct, but then again, how could it not be?—they were the only ones that were still _fucking_ alive) and switched the phone to speaker.

"_Wei_, _meiguo_," he murmured in vaguely accented Chinese, "talk to _yingguo_ for me, will you?" America wondered if England had been able to decipher his Chinese—hopefully not, as it had been a damn difficult language to learn (but all they'd had in between their drunkenness and bloody brawls with the enemy was _time_, and time was all it took to master a language), and the single decade since that ban on foreigners learning the language had been lifted was probably not enough for England to attain any fluency.

"Talk to _who_?" England asked, thoroughly confused.

America gestured to the object in his hand, grinning for the first time that day. "It's a portable voiced telegraph machine, recently invented." He nearly added 'by yours truly' when he realized that he wasn't the right nation anymore.

"What?" echoed the voice in the phone, "I—listen, is this..._meiguo_?"

"Yeah," America answered, "It's me alright. Listen, can you curse England out in his language?"

America could hear China breathing on the other end, probably trying to figure out their situation. Couldn't the nation just come up with some bullshit so that England could shut up? Maybe something like—

"Do you really need my help in that department?" China asked, and America winced because really, China knew his cursing tendencies a bit too well. (But it wasn't his _fault_, because how the hell were you supposed to compose yourself when you saw your own limbs being torn apart day by day and couldn't control any of it? Besides, he knew China cursed too, just not in English, and the two of them could easily trade only swear words in an entire day.)

"What the hell is this?" England asked, alarmed, "A portable telegraph machine—you don't even have telegraph lines, China, how did you—"

"I sold it to him," the voice in the phone answered smoothly.

"And who the hell are you?"

"You don't remember me, England? Really? Me, that bastard of a colony who somehow kicked your ass in battle after battle? Am I that unmemorable?"

America snorted, wondering if China was grinning in mad amusement at the other end, because he sure as hell sounded like he was. And they had time now, didn't they? Time to joke, time to laugh, time to really appreciate life without hiding underground with filth and dirt and mud lining their fingers, time, so much fucking time that he might just go giddy with glee.

—

**notes:**

- _hong cha_ = black tea, where _hong_ = red. It's named for the color of the tea, but in English it's named for the color of the leaves. I have heard that _baijiu_ (not white wine) is nasty. A _jiu3 dian4_ (酒店) is a fancy restaurant + hotel. When I was younger I used to think they only served alcohol (_jiu3_ = alcohol and _dian4_ = store), but I have since learned that's not the case.

- _mei3 guo2 _(美国) is America, _ying1 guo2 _(_英国_) is England (but it also means the UK, the word's usage is hella complicated; basically it dates to pre-1707 union England, and thus the term has survived to somehow refer to both England and the UK. The UK's literal name is _lian2 he2 wang2 guo2 _(联合王国), but I never hear anyone use that, most people just use _ying guo_. England also has a full name _ying1 ge2 lan2 _(英格兰)_, _and _ying guo_ is really just an abbrev of that). Fun facts: _ying_ = heroic, _mei_ = beautiful. Sorry America, but China doesn't think you're a hero. :P

- The treaty the US signed with China was the Treaty of Wangxia (1844), signed two years after the UK's Treaty of Nanjing (1842). More on both treaties later.

- In Oct 1856, Chinese officials seized "Arrow", a ship they thought was engaging in piracy under the British flag. The British demanded an apology and that its crew be returned. The crew was returned, but the apology wasn't issued, and so the British bombarded Canton. England is essentially in the middle of negotiating this.

- The first telegraph lines didn't reach China until the 1870s. America was thinking of his own history, where telegraph lines existed in the 1850s.


	2. Chapter 2

**chapter two**

* * *

"_You_ sold him this?" England sniffed. "I never knew you were quite this foolish, America."

America snorted, and muffled the speakerphone option, no longer wanting England to hear China's reply. England was clearly only saying so because he was jealous, because if he couldn't get the grapes, why not call them sour? "I think," America said, glancing at England pointedly, "that we're quite done here. I've made my point pretty well, don't you think?"

"What point?" England shot him a derisive look. "China, do you truly believe that America's actions mean anything? He merely sold you one of his technological farces. If you think this means the two of you are entering into some long-standing alliance or that you can depend on that two-faced American for anything, then I can assure you you're delusional." England then gave an amused chuckle and added, "Not that you're not already delusional, Yao, what with the opium and the alcohol—"

"You don't know shit." America snapped his—China's—phone shut, telling himself he'd call China after he managed to remove England's presence from his house. Two-faced American? Oh, yes, because England was being so much less two-faced by talking about people behind their backs!

"Really, I don't?" England asked, "Because you've interacted a lot with America, right? Because you know _so much_ about him, you who insist on being as isolated as possible, on being left alone—"

"And just what," America began with a sneer, "just what do _you_ know about America, since you've interacted with him oh-so-much?" Because the goddamn British Empire _obviously_ knew more about America than America himself! Then he shuddered involuntarily, feeling an uncanny wave of nausea wash over him—it was all over in a moment, but what the hell was that?

"I know that he's not who you think he is," England stated flatly, "You think he'll stop selling you opium just because he _promised_ to in that useless treaty of his? You think he's above lying just because he's a child? I would hope that one who has lived as long as you would not be so naive, or is your senility getting to you?"

America made an annoyed noise, eyes fixated on the twisted smile England wore. If anyone was growing senile between the two of them, it was probably England. "Of course _you_ can be trusted, oh great British Empire," he leered. Then the look in his eyes hardened and he snapped, "You know what, get the hell out of my house, England."

England shot him an assessing look. "Oh, and on top of the senility, bi-polar, are we? I'm not going anywhere, China. We had an _agreement_, and I'll be damned if you think you can disregard it whenever you please."

"I'm not disregarding anything. Our agreement was on trade, not on whether or not you're allowed to reside in my house and steal my tea and waste my fucking time!" Was their agreement on trade? America wasn't entirely sure—yes, his own Treaty of Wanghia had been based on England's agreement, but there were probably special conditions to the British agreement that he no longer remembered. This was why he needed to contact China _now_, so he could figure out exactly what this complex network of treaties was supposed to be doing.

"I told you what I was here for, China, and I have no intentions of leaving until you give me an answer. Do not waste my time by dawdling."

"You want your apology, is that it? And I gave you my answer, so can you have some _patience_ and—"

"I demand the apology _now_. It was a grave offence you committed, and I will not allow such a grievance against me to be left alone."

"Alright, alright, geez. I'm sorry, okay? Are you fucking happy now?" America wasn't even sure exactly what the offence against Britain was supposed to be. Something about seizing a pirate ship that was flying the British flag, right? Not that he really cared—he just needed England to _get the fuck out_, and the faster he could get the nation out the door, the better. It didn't mean that he was going to grovel for it, but a half-done apology might just speed things along...

Unfortunately, England wouldn't have any of it. "Could you be any more insincere? You tear apart _my_ flag, accuse me of committing a crime I never committed, and _this_ is your apology, China? This bullshit, non-committal, meaningless little exchange? You know what, I'll give you one more chance. One more, and if your apology isn't properly _apologetic_ by then, don't be surprised about Canton's fate."

England, satisfied with his own diatribe, slammed the door behind him as he left.

—

America cradled his head in his hands, feeling ever more nauseous by the moment. The goddamn stress was getting to him, he thought, and England wanted a _real _apology? How the hell was he supposed to be sincere when he had _no idea_ what was going on? Not that he didn't issue apologies when they were appropriate, but this was not the same—this was not some reparation for a past crime (he was barely even aware of what the goddamn crime _was_), this was a political gimmick—a "grovel to the British Empire and we won't hack you apart" apology, and fuck England if he thought America was going to _grovel_.

But at least, America groused bitterly, at least England was gone, and he was now free to call (and complain to) China as he pleased.

He opened the phone again, realizing wearily that he'd had three missed calls. Apparently China had called once more after America abruptly cut off their conversation. As he pressed '1', he realized that he should ask China about the existence of the phone itself—how in the world were they able to communicate at all? Where were the goddamn phone towers in 1850-something?

"Hey, is this...China?"

A long sigh could be heard at the other end. "Yes, yes. I take it you were having...problems with ___Yīngguó_?"

"No shit. I don't even know if I have the brain cells to think about what the hell happened last night that caused this. I should never agree to go drinking with you again, you old bastard."

China ignored the insult to his age (because even though young nations were so, _so_ immature, he didn't have time to play another round of "get off my lawn") and instead supplied, "Don't you repeat this mantra daily? 'China, I'm never drinking with you again!' or 'Damn it all, this hangover is gonna be the death of me.' And yet you join me every night."

"Yeah, and thanks for breaking the tradition, sheesh! Now we can't drink together, ever, not even if we want to. How many miles apart are we again? A goddamn fourteen hour plane flight, if I'm remembering correctly. And we won't even have planes for another fifty years..."

"Your drinking is really not healthy, _____Měiguó_, so I wouldn't view this in the most negative light."

"Could you just shut up about my drinking already?" America grumbled petulantly, "You're starting to sound like England—'oh, you're an opium addict, a drug fiend, _and_ a drunkard'—the fucking bastard. I don't drink that much, and certainly not any more than _you_ do." China did drink plenty, and he'd bragged about it too, saying, "_Ǎn kéyǐ hē sìshí wǎn jiǔ, zěnme yàng__?"_, which America had loosely interpreted as 'I can drink more than Prussia and Russia combined!'

China sighed. "I'll believe when you sound less like a whiny child. And tell England that I would not have been _nearly_ as addicted to opium if he hadn't forced it on me!"

America mumbled something incoherent and equally petulant in response to China's jab about his childishness. Then he cleared his throat and said, "So how the hell are we able to call each other anyway? Phone towers—hell, _telephones_ haven't even been invented yet—not for another twenty years at least, so why is it that our cell phones actually work?"

"I must admit I don't know. But since the time travelling brought back more than just _us—_it brought back our clothes and our phones too, remember? I also have your handgun, your collection of pocket knives, and the half-melted chocolate bar in your pants pocket, so why couldn't it also have brought back phone towers?"

"You have my _chocolate bar_? You lucky bastard. Maybe your chant brings back whatever we were touching at the time. I think I blacked out at some point, so I don't know, maybe I wandered out of the _jiudian_ and touched a phone tower or something."

"If that is what happened, then I am grateful. But in any case, your chocolate was half-melted, _Měiguó_. Absolutely inedible, and it ruined a pair of perfectly good pants. _Fǎguó _was not joking about you having inheirited your taste buds from _Yīngguó._"

"Oh man," America moaned, "Don't talk to me about _Yīngguó__—_England, please. Why in the world do I have to take your place, damnit? And just how addicted to opium _were_ you? 'Cause I mean, I'm in your body, and sometimes I get these waves of...nausea and stuff."

China's next words sounded hesitant, as though reluctant to admit the addictions of his past self, "Well, I was certainly...having problems. But you are a nation, so as long as _some_ of your people aren't...addicted, the symptoms won't show up all the time. You'll have times of sobriety and...well."

"Brilliant," America muttered, rolling his eyes. "Absolutely brilliant."

"Your life sucks too," China grumbled sourly, "Or do you want to explain the persistent road rash in my—_your—_mid-section?"

"Persistent road rash? Oh shit, it's the 1850s isn't it? I guess that means in a few years—oh—_Oh!_" In a few years the Civil War would break out, and America's memory during most of the war's start had been hazy—just pain and hallucinations and gunshots and nondescript wounds. Still, China was _old_, he'd seen hundreds of civil wars, and this shouldn't have been anything new, right?

"Yes, _meiguo_, I'm well aware of what's supposed to happen in another five years or so. I'm guessing this persistent road rash is just a precursor, right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I remember now—Kansas was bleeding, that's what the road rash was. Damn. This would be so much easier to handle if we were actually the right people—I mean, I barely even know what the hell it is England is talking about, and he keeps on making demand after demand, and I just want to punch him in the fucking face and ask him to explain his holier-than-thou self better."

"I'm not disagreeing with you," China replied, "___Yīngguó_ was very...irksome."

"Right, so why don't you lend me some weapons or money or _something_ so that I can have some goddamn leveraging power against the guy? If he touches Canton now, and he probably will 'cause I've got no intentions of groveling the way he wants me to, I'd be screwed."

China let out an annoyed sigh. "_Lend_? I'm not going to allow you to run my country into debt-ridden never-never-land, ___Měiguó_. Just because you are perfectly content with building up an army on borrowed money does _not_ mean—"

America pouted at the phone. "Alright, _fine_, forget about lending then, why don't you sell them to me? I've got a ton of Ming dynasty vases and really really expensive tea sets just sitting here in my living room. If I don't sell them, England'll probably find some excuse to take them anyway. Besides, don't you want to be reunited with your _taoci_? It'd be awesome, and I know you love your cultural artifacts—"

It was then that America realized the light breathing indicating that China was still there had disappeared. In fact, when he pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced down at it, it was flashing a disturbing "out of batteries" sign. America cursed—the loudest he'd ever done so—and set the phone down on the table, drained. If China had been intelligent enough to teleport a couple of phone towers back, why the hell hadn't he also teleported extra batteries or a _charger_? Though technically chargers were useless because they didn't have outlets, but a couple of batteries could've done a _world_ of wonders. Or maybe if China had actually charged his damn phone to full speed before their night of drunken insanity...

And to make matters worse, he hadn't even asked China what the hell England was going on about, so he was _still_ in the dark. How else had people communicated back in the day? Letters? America cringed at the thought of himself penning a letter after a good fifty years of not writing a thing. He could touch type in his mind's eye, but _penmanship_? England had always complained that his penmanship was horrid. America, in turn, had pointed out that England couldn't touch type for crap, and they'd never resolved that particular diplomatic crisis. (France had offered to meditate, but that had mostly been France saying, "Oh, you Anglophones have the genetic _disease_ of sloppy handwriting. Now, look at this, my fine French script!")

Besides, a letter would take months to reach China, and he needed to appease England very, very soon.

Maybe he could write a sickly sweet letter sucking up to England and deliver it to him personally. Then he could avoid the confrontation—and embarrassment—that would be involved in actually _talking_ to England. Besides, he knew England was a sucker for good English (the kind with the u's and the s's in their proper places), so he would just write in his best imitation of England's flowery prose.

_Dear Arthur,_

_You are an insufferable arsehole._

_Sincerely,  
__You-know-who_

America admired his own work, shaking with mirth. Okay, that was definitely not going to work—it was neither flowery nor sickly sweet, even though he had spelled 'arsehole' the way England wanted it. He tried again:

_Dear The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland,_

_Centuries ago, in a small kingdom by the sea, a great poet named Alexander Pope penned, "To err is human, to forgive, divine."  
__The aspiration to divinity is a bold one, but we all know the gods take kindly to it when humans imitate them. Is this perfection  
__not what we seek in the end?_

_My transgressions the other day were only human, and I deliver my sincerest apologies for them. A great misunderstanding  
__that was blown out of proportion, and I hope you can find it in yourself to embrace the divine._

_Sincerely,  
__Zhongguo_

America cringed. That was the most disgustingly diplomatic letter he'd ever written in a lifetime. Then he groaned when he realized that technically, it wasn't "Northern Ireland" back in the day, but just "Ireland". He was going to have great fun painstakingly recopying the damn letter for England's sake (because really, it just wouldn't do to have him happen upon random hints of the future, would it?). After all the effort he was going to, England had better not bombard Canton, because if the bastard had any idea how _difficult_ penmanship was for America...

And maybe, just maybe, he should also edit out that part where he'd called England a "small kingdom". Would "large empire" appease him? _Centuries ago, in a large empire by the sea..._

No, that lacked a certain ring to it.

_Centuries ago, on a crammed island surrounded by sharks..._

That would be good. If he wanted England to kill him.

—

_(Fundamentally, all nations were pretty similar. They all shared that dash of greed, the tidbit of compassion, and everything else in between.)_

"The entire state of California," America had said, and indeed he had made good on his promise, because technically, _China_ had California now, post-gold-rush economy and all. He'd remembered making the journey to California back in 1851, with the news of gold, gold, _glorious gold_ ringing in his mind. The trip, however, was a disappointment, as America had been less than welcoming. In fact, there were moments when he'd been downright _hostile_, though China had still managed to set up a vacation home ('vacation' being a euphemism of sorts) amid Alfred's protests.

Well, it would certainly be different _now_, because they were unaffected by that disturbing xenophobia of yesteryear, because that war—

A couple of misplaced time travelers, he mused to himself, and they would screw over history forever.

—

After America's call had abruptly ended, China had called him back a good five times. No response, not even an automated "leave a message". He realized belatedly that this was probably because America had _his_ phone and he'd never bothered to set up his voicemail box. The abrupt end probably only meant one thing—something was distracting America, rendering the nation unable to talk. It was possible that England had started up something again—the British Empire had been _such_ an annoyance, just like all the other Western powers back then.

He cursed whoever was distracting America from answering the phone, because he'd only discovered an hour ago that it was election season. Sure, he'd seen enough of America's elections to know a thing or two, but it would've been nice to ask America for some foresight on who the candidates were, who was going to win, and what he was supposed to do.

(Because he had a feeling this election was going to end badly. Just a feeling.)

And because without any knowledge, he could only nurse his wound, alone in his empty house. (America, for someone so young, had been quite good at keeping Bleeding Kansas hidden, hadn't he?) China thought it was quite like the old days, when he could sit alone for days and days, free to compose his poetry and drink his wine in peace.

(Then every generation or so, there'd be a rebellion, a civil war of sorts, but that had just been the natural course of things, because as ___Xúnzǐ_ had said in his advice to the emperor, the people can give power or take it away whenever they please, and what were the civil wars for if not an overthrow of the corrupt? Just natural, watching governments flow in and out of power...Everything would be made right again in the end.)

But extended isolation was a hazy memory of yesteryear, and he'd gotten used to the convenience of their modern world. Even in the most secluded forest, he had never felt truly alone, because his allies were just a phone call away.

Now, though, he felt peculiarly _isolated_. He couldn't travel (or at least, not with any ease), couldn't fire long diplomatic emails at enemies and friends alike, couldn't disseminate fake versions of software to needle America (yes, it had been highly amusing when Alfred had come to his house red-faced and screaming about "copyright protection" when China _knew_ America downloaded his music for free), couldn't do much of _anything_.

When had the world become so slow?

And America, who was usually more in tune with technology than him—America was probably even worse off.

He could only imagine that the nation was tearing his hair out because he couldn't shoot England an email saying "hey r u ok sorry about that boat i seized dont be a jerk and forgive me, k?". To which England would complain that America had no "email etiquette" and was misusing his u's and r's like a madman. America would snap that England frequently overused _his_ u's and s's, so who was he to complain? China remembered that the two had started this exact argument during a UN Security Council meeting, and he, France, and Russia had all quietly agreed that meetings would be much more productive if they voted to ban the two rabble-rousers permanently.

And then there was what America had said before the abrupt end to their call—"Why don't you sell 'em to me?"

Certainly he _wanted_ to buy his ceramics, because he'd be giving himself a very useful weapons arsenal in the trade process, and who didn't want to help themselves? There was just the small problem of _what would America's government think? _If Alfred's people were adamantly against this "arming China" business, how was he going to convince them it was beneficial? They would never be convinced that who they thought was China was actually more apt to look out for American interests than 'America' himself.

Worse, with letters being the only possible form of communication (because there were no telegraph lines in his land yet, _damn_), they would take _years_ to negotiate a single trade. Perhaps, though, he could send a telegram to a middle man, and ask them to deliver it to America. Of course, America would have no way of replying, and who could he trust to be a middle man?

There was also the fact that his past self had been...quite addicted to opium, and America would probably need advice about struggling with the after-effects of the drug.

China suddenly had an unwelcome image of an opium-high America running about with nuclear weapons.

Oh, the insanity.

—

"I hadn't expected the brat to be quite such a...pain."

"What do you mean, _Angleterre_? I'm sure you can't begrudge him for using the same tactics we're using. Besides, it just seems like he's doing a good job of currying favor. No need to be jealous."

"For heaven's sake, think about what you're saying, France! Either China is off his rocker or America really did sell him a portable telegraph-type thing. And if it's the latter, how can you _possibly_ condone it? America's breaking our tacit agreement that no one nation should be allowed to receive 'favored nation' status! If he thinks he can hog China to himself—damn it, he's probably so incapable of reading into subtleties that he didn't even know of our implicit agreement."

"_Angleterre, _you are quite the whiner—seems like 'whinging pom' is accurate after all. And besides, don't you think the bigger problem here is this 'portable telegraph-type thing' you're speaking of? We've never even _heard_ of it—when did _États-Unis_ develop it? And why did he not choose to share it with us first, especially considering that we already have telegraph lines in place?"

England sighed. "Yes, that brings me to my next point—I think we ought to do some investigating into this device of America's. It will be difficult to get any information out of America at this point, considering how far he went to keep this a secret from us, so it may be easiest to focus our energies on China. He seemed confident when he demonstrated the device to me, so he probably knows a thing or two about how it was created."

"Focus _o__ur_ energies, _Angleterre_? I was not aware that I was included in this plan."

England raised an eyebrow. "I'm assuming your aid is a given on this one, France. After all, don't we both have grievances against China? I seem to remember you being attacked by him at some point. And as for America—we can't have him taking more than his fair share, can we?"

"True, true." France smiled vaguely, because a part of him _was_ thirsting for revenge against China, because being slapped for expounding his beliefs had been humiliating and downright rude, and wasn't this the perfect opportunity to humiliate China in turn? "So, _Angleterre_, since you look like you've been in and out of China's house all of last week, what do you suggest we do?"

"It's simple. I have demanded an apology from China for the Arrow incident, so I expect him to visit me sometime soon, likely within this week. When this occurs, I will invite him in for food and drinks, and we will _talk_. Then—"

"Oh, so England is finally going to sit down and speak civilly with someone?"

"France," England snapped icily, "I am always perfectly civil. But that does not mean I will allow mere politeness to get in the way of my goals."

France snorted. "So what exactly are you intending on doing? Clearly you're aiming for more than just simple _talking_, because I don't see China telling you anything over tea. He and America probably have some form of a non-disclosure agreement. Certainly America is likely to be careful about revealing his trade secrets—he learned—and stole—from the best, didn't he, England?"

Yes, England thought, the pesky brat had stolen his textile secrets, so _this_ was his chance for some payback. Whatever secretive little communication device America had developed, he would leak out into the open for the world to see. Information was best _shared_, wasn't it?

"There is no need to worry about my plan, France. I will take care of the drinks; you can handle the food. China seems to be unable to appreciate my cooking abilities, much like the rest of you heathens."

France guffawed, waving his hands about in mock horror. "Oh, heathens indeed! It seems like China is very much in line with the rest of us then. Perhaps we, in our united dislike of your cooking abilities, should declare war on _you_? Our goals would be to defend our health and tastebuds from the terrifying monster that is English cooking!"

"Goddamnit, can you be serious for once?"

"I am being perfectly serious, _Angleterre_! After all, it is not very often that you ask me for help in the fine art of _cooking_." France smirked, and added, "In any case, I will agree, on the condition that whatever information you obtain will be shared duly with me and _only_ me. Should Russia come to you with requests of the fruit of our labor, you will refuse."

"Certainly. After all, I have no particular love for Russia, as you know."

They shook hands, and France realized something_._

There was a package of brownish powder in England's coat pocket, and France quietly wondered—who loved the plant more—_Angleterre_ or _Chine_?

* * *

**notes:**

(1) translations

_- __Ǎn kéyǐ hē sìshí wǎn jiǔ, zěnme yàng__?_ - 俺可以喝四十碗酒，怎么样？- of course it doesn't actually mean what America thought it did, it's actually "I can down forty bowls of alcohol, so what?". The "I" used here is kinda like the "I" Prussia would use. China's drunk. ;)  
_- __Fǎguó_ - 法国 - France  
- _Xún Zǐ _(荀子) said 水能载舟，亦能覆舟 - shuǐ néng zài zhōu, yì néng fù zhōu - meaning that water (people) can keep a boat afloat or sink it (revolt)

(2) Apparently medicinal opium usage (and abuse) was common in Victorian England, even for children. Opium dens in London, however, were a thing sensationalized by fiction. Also, I just read up more on opium (and opiates in general) than I ever needed to know. Urk.

(3) Timeline of things:

- Oct 1856: The Second Opium War breaks out with seizing of the Arrow. France helps Britain because a French missionary was executed (China's "slapping" of France). The US and Russia also sent envoys but never really helped militarily.  
- Nov 1856: US Presidential Election. James Buchanan (often said by historians to be one of the worst presidents) wins.  
- 1850-1864: Taiping Rebellion (civil war in southern China)  
- 1861-1865: American Civil War. Concurrent civil wars. D:


	3. Chapter 3

**chapter three**

* * *

America really, really did not want to deliver the letter. After all, he'd quoted Alexander Pope in an attempt to grovel to England, and that was just horribly, disgustingly embarrassing. Still, it was either that or let England take Canton, and the consequences of the latter were far too daunting. He would just have to bite the bullet and do it, all the while containing his desire to stab his brush through England's eye.

(Actually, would England even mind that? The nation was already wearing an eye patch, and surely giving him an actual _reason_ to wear the damn piece of cloth would be welcome?)

Then, to his utter frustration, America discovered that England's house was nowhere to be found. Where the hell had the bastard resided while visiting China? China was probably annoyed enough that he wouldn't have willingly provided housing, but surely England wasn't sleeping in a cardboard box. Did they even have inhabitable cardboard boxes back in the day? (Stupid question, he berated himself, of course they did, they just had varying definitions of "inhabitable".)

Then he saw someone—Engl—no, _France_. America felt a surge of excitement, because France was alive too, everyone was _alive_ again, and this was his goddamn second chance, but—he squashed the feeling, because this wasn't the time and place to be feeling nostalgic. What the hell was France doing here?

The nation was probably in cahoots with England, although exactly what he wanted America wasn't sure. How often had China spoken to France anyway? Besides the one time America had invited them both over and they'd bonded over a mix of _chinois_ and _fǎshì_ cuisine (America had to admit it was the best dinner he'd had in his life and thanked his lucky stars that he'd gotten it for _free_), they'd mostly ignored each other, giving the occasional curt nod at meetings.

"Why, hello _Chine_," France greeted, "it is certainly a good day to be out, is it not?"

America gave France his best glare, and wondered if he should attempt to imitate China's accent. France wouldn't really know the difference, would he? After all, English wasn't his native language either. "What the hell do you want?"

"So rude," France murmured, shaking his head. "I don't want anything in particular. Just to talk, perhaps. Would you grant me that?"

America snorted. "Fine then, _talk_, Fr—_fǎlánxī_. I'm all ears." Well, he'd really mangled the Chinese there, but it wasn't like France would know the difference...

"Alright then," France mused, "I just have one question—what do you think about dinner?"

"Dinner?" America asked, suddenly worried. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he really, really could not cook proper Chinese cuisine, and France would see through it so damn quickly it'd be—"What about dinner? Listen France, I absolutely, unequivocally _refuse_ to cook you _anything_, lest you—"

"_Non_," France grunted, wondering how China had jumped to a false conclusion so quickly. Could the nation give _any_ of them a chance? And since when had China used his actual name—_France—_in place of that mangled _falanshi_ or whatever it was? Moreover, when had he learned words like 'unequivocally'?—surely it could not have been from hanging out with _Angleterre_. "I was offering to cook _you_ dinner. A bit of a cultural exchange, shall we say? It sounds like you would prefer not to join me in the kitchen, and that is fine."

Dinner—France was offering dinner—and he would be _cooking_! America suddenly realized that he couldn't turn this one down. It was instinctual, because in their age of food shortages and drought and famine, who could turn down free food?

"...Alright, alright, I could go for dinner."

France nodded, smiling. "Good, good. I'll meet you at my houseboat at around six o'clock then. My boat is the fifth one left of the largest willow tree."

—

France _hated_ cooking with England.

"_Angleterre_, that is _not_ going to work."

England had been about to dump a large batch of—France presumed—fresh opium poppies into his cheese fondue. France, being of quick reflexes, had managed to stop him just in time.

"I am most certainly _not_ going to test taste a fondue that is laced with that goddamn plant! How do you expect me to cook decent fondue without _trying_ it along the way? This must be the way you English cook—you simply never bother to check whether or not your soup has been burnt to a crisp—"

"You've been tasting the damn thing for the past _hour_. If it's not perfect by now, I don't see how it'll _ever_ be perfect."

"Who knows how the poppy will alter things? I'm not willing to take risks on something as _crucial_ as fondue! Besides, opium by itself tastes bitter and I am _not_ taking the chance with a—"

England gave France a look. "And how the hell would _you_ know what opium tastes like?"

France paused, realizing his slip. He knew what opium tasted like because of his numerous visits to Vietnam, but no, he was not about to let England in on his addiction problems. In fact, scratch that, he wasn't addicted—he wasn't addicted at all, he was just _experimenting_, and who could fault him for that? He was sure the bastard British Empire would laugh at him, mock him for having stooped to such a level, even though it was obvious England took his fair share of the plant as well, just in a different form. Really, who was stupider—a nation who gave his children opium or he who indulged every once in a blue moon?

"Never mind how I know, England. I just don't want my reputation to be ruined over your stupid plan—"

"For godsake, France, stop being so damn fixated on the quality of your cooking! Once the plant takes effect in China's body, I very much doubt he would care about the taste of your smelly stew. If you're going to be so damn crazy about it, why don't you just cut it into tiny pieces so that it's less noticeable and—"

"_Angleterre_! Will you kindly leave the cooking to _me_? Cutting it into tiny pieces will not necessarily get rid of the taste—why else do you think spices are also cut into tiny pieces? It is clear you know nothing about cooking, so will you _please_ just take your plant elsewhere? Go make some tea with it or something!"

England made a frustrated noise, but to France's relief, left the kitchen. Presumably this was because 'opium tea' was actually a viable plan...

—

"Is everything ready? The tea, the food, the—"

"Yes, England, everything is _perfect_. This is the fourth time you've asked that—will you please _calm down_? I told you I invited him to dinner at six, and he is probably just fashionably late."

France sighed, wondering why England was so insanely impatient. In fact, England's impatience had been the only reason why he'd gone out to find China instead of waiting for the nation to come to them. Apparently England thought China needed help finding their houseboat, which France was unable to comprehend. How would China _not_ know who had docked in his ports? Unless, of course, he really was as high as England had implied, but if that were the case, how could they expect the nation to explain America's machine with any coherence?

"Are you stupid or what?" England snapped back, "Only _you_ think it's fashionable to be late, certainly I've never heard of such a ludicrous statement. I'm sure China would not subscribe to your stupid—"

England was cut off by loud rapping at the door. He couldn't remember the last time China had knocked like _that_, but he supposed that constant opium highs could change anything.

France rushed to the door. "Ah, _Chine_, it is great to see you have finally made it." He opened the door to allow 'China' to step in, and smiled (just a little) at the way the nation stiffened upon seeing England.

"What the hell is he doing here?" America snapped, jabbing a finger towards England. Then he cringed, because wasn't he supposed to be apologizing? Certainly by now he'd ruined his chances of getting a decent apology in (he was no good at this diplomacy shit, no good, no good at all!), but goddamn it, would England actually be pissed enough from this one slip to invade Canton? America tried to remember the last time he'd been attacked by England—it felt so foreign, so faraway, a hazy memory he could barely recall, but now, now this bastard was in front of him, threatening stance and all.

"What do you mean what I'm doing here?" England grumbled. "I _live_ here, China. This is _my_ boat you're stepping on, so it's best if you do not act quite so rude. France is merely borrowing my residence because he is...too cheap to obtain one of his own." Which, of course, was a great lie, as France had plenty of boats to spare, but nothing he said to China now would matter in a few hours, when the nation would be busy fending off the effects of the opium poppy...

America gave England a suspicious look. "Wait a minute...did the two of you cook dinner together? Because—" he turned to France, "I mean, seriously France, you let _him_ cook? I have no idea what came over you, but surely you of all people know _exactly_ how he cooks?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" England protested, indignant, especially when France suddenly broke out laughing, arrogant bastard that he was. Wasn't France supposed to be on _his_ side? Why the hell did _everyone_ have to take a jab at his cooking abilities?

"Oh, do not worry so much, _Chine_. I kicked _Angleterre_ out of the kitchen as fast as I could. Everything on the table is my doing, save the tea."

America nodded, relieved. Because no, he was not a fan of half-cooked, half-burnt riff-raff. And as for tea, England couldn't _possibly_ mangle tea, could he? That was practically his national drink, not that America was at all a fan of drinking it...

—

England noticed with rising frustration that China had barely touched his tea. Instead, he was ripping his bread with great fervor, drowning it in that disgusting cheese stew of France's—since when had China taken a liking to _cheese_? Was there something off about the smell of his tea? He doubted it, because he'd mixed it with hefty amounts of _oolong_ _cha_ to cover up the smell of the poppy. Besides, if opium was rather bitter anyway (assuming France could be trusted), and China liked his tea bitter, what could possibly be wrong?

"China," he began, "you haven't touched your tea."

America sighed. He didn't _want_ to touch his tea, because he was sure England had neglected to put sugar in it (as the tea was for China), and the damn thing was _hot_, and he really didn't want unsweetened uniced tea. Despite the years he'd spent with China, he'd never taken to tea of any sort, instead preferring to explore China's collection of alcoholic beverages. (And China really did have a lot, mostly courtesy of his northern peoples and a very special northern neighbor...)

"Yeah, well, I'm not that thirsty yet. Maybe later?" He tried to smile at England, which ended up strained, as he was too tired and too bitter to pull off a real smile.

Eventually though, America discovered that the fondue had left his throat particularly parched and dry. (The cheese, oh, it had been so many long years since he'd tasted something like _that._ Not only had he not had the resources to make decent cheese, but there simply had been no time to enjoy anything. Real food and drink? That was for the dead.) He glanced at the tea again, wondering if he should brave it. Yes, it was bitter, but hopefully he could ignore that in favor of fixing his thirst...

Two sets of eyes watched America with wary excitement as he drank the tea, chugging it down as quickly as he could in order to avoid having to really taste it. In a record five seconds, his teacup was empty, leaving a gaping England and France.

"Do you want more?" England asked, attempting to be polite. (He had a whole teapot of opium-laced tea, and the more the merrier, right? He wasn't sure what happened when nations overdosed, but he was pretty sure they didn't die.)

"I...uh, I'm quite fine," America mumbled. That tea England had made was really far too strong for his tastes. There was something oddly resin-like about the taste of it, not that he was really sure what tea tasted like, as he'd always added copious amounts of sugar. (Both England and China had once complained that what he drank amounted to no more than sugar water...)

—

They ate more, made small talk about matters America didn't care a whit about (something about a civil war America had only heard of in passing from China, and usually only when the nation was particularly bitter), and then—

—he felt warm. Warm, cozy, like someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the October cold. And he could appreciate the kindness, couldn't he? He could appreciate anything nowadays, because that's what war had reduced him to. It was the simple things, like this feathery coat of warm air he was snuggling against, the melody and rhythm of the earth as it sped through darkness...Everything, everything was so beautiful, as if all of life had been built for his enjoyment.

Then there were the two nations sitting by him—they were—they were smiling at him, actually _smiling_. For once they were happy with him, they weren't yelling at him, they weren't cursing him out of the room, telling him he'd screwed things up again, that he was causing their infighting, their deaths, that his nosiness had ruined them, and how could he, _how could he_?

But they were smiling now, they looked so serene, so at peace, so kind and warm and...

"England," he whispered, trying to lift his heavy eyelids so he could meet the other nation's eyes, "I...I'm so glad you're alive. I thought you really were dead, like everyone else, like...oh gods, everyone, they're all still dead, aren't they? I had to bury them, and it was my fault, all my fault that they died. I encouraged them, I...we thought we could play them against each other, we thought we were doing so well, so..."

France and England exchanged a look. What in seven hells was China talking about?

"Yes, China, we are alive. I don't think we've ever been dead," England replied. "But out of curiosity, what made you think we'd died?"

"No, it's not possible," America whispered, bordering on hysterics. "I felt that bomb being dropped, I was in the shelter with you, I was...I told you to come with me 'cause I'd found someplace safe, 'cause I'd built this underground defense vault and then you...you..." America choked on his words, remembering. Because even if China had told him again and again that it wasn't his fault England had died, he couldn't really forgive himself. It was his defense vault that had collapsed, so no matter what, he was still responsible, wasn't he?

(Why was he thinking of this now? He had a vague inkling that something was off, that he shouldn't have been entertaining flights of nostalgia. But those smiles were genuine, weren't they? England and France weren't blaming him, and he had a chance to make things right.)

"I...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, England. After all that shit I created, the lies I told, you must hate me, huh? I really...I don't deserve this. This..."

England raised an eyebrow. Was China _apologizing_? This really was not his goal—he hadn't drugged China for the nation to apologize to him—he frankly couldn't give a shit if China apologized or not. He'd already half set his mind on attacking Canton, because China's transgressions had gone farther than a simple apology could fix. And underground vaults? What exactly was China referring to?

But even through the hazy smell of opium rotting the air, England could tell—he could just _tell—_

The apology was sincere. It was so sincere and so _wrong_, because who in their right mind would say what was really on their heart? That wasn't how things worked—everyone was supposed to be behind a facade, a veneer of deadly calm, with their true emotions wrapped under layers and layers of politics, manipulation, and deceit. And China was old, so old that he should've perfected this game into an art form by now.

He'd always justified things to himself because China had been unreasonable, unfair, because China had played games with all of them, trying to turn them against each other (not that he'd succeeded), and didn't that deserve retribution?

"It's fine," England said stiffly, because how else do you respond to a genuine apology?

Then he watched as China drifted off, lulled into a half-aware trance courtesy of the plant, and sighed. They'd missed the window of opportunity to ask China questions about that thing he'd received from America, and now...

(Maybe the decades and centuries of lies had made him disgusted and cynical in the face of honesty. Or maybe he'd just never been right in the head at all...)

France rose from his chair, looking pointedly at China. "We...we should probably move _Chine_ to a more comfortable sleeping position."

England snorted. "He'll manage. Do you—do you think he meant what he said?

France furrowed his eyebrows. "He was high, England, and he was rambling like a madman. Even if he meant what he said, he would never say it while sober. I think we should just carry him over to his house and be done with it."

They lifted China into the air together and managed to maneuver the nation to the door. They found a _jiàozi_, gave the bearers directions to China's house, and joined the still entranced nation in the sedan.

—

"France," England muttered, frowning. The two of them had dumped China unceremoniously onto his bed and were currently hovering listlessly in the living room.

"What?"

"I just realized—we should empty China's pockets. I remember he pulled that thing from his left jacket pocket—we should see if it's still there. Since we seemed to have overdone the opium, we might as well—"

"We?" France grumbled, "I had no part in the drugging, _Angleterre_. You can only blame yourself for being too heavy-handed in your dosage." He rummaged through China's pocket and fished out a carefully labeled envelope. "Is this it? It looks like a letter, not some fabled portable speech device—and it's addressed to you."

A letter—and it was addressed to England? England opened it slowly, because he was awash with confusion—

_Centuries ago, in a small kingdom by the sea, a great poet named Alexander Pope penned..._

_My transgressions the other day were only human, and I deliver my sincerest apologies for them..._

Had China come trying to deliver this? England closed his eyes, trying to weigh the possibilities. How had China known who Alexander Pope was? They'd rarely spoke to each other about writers or figures of great cultural significance, and China had always insisted on remaining isolated, so how was it that China could quote Pope? This—this had to be related to that 'portable telegraph machine' the nation had mentioned.

England looked around the room, hoping for further explanation. He saw a crumpled paper on China's desk, which he picked up, unfurled, and read. It was the same letter, except that it had been addressed to "the United Kingdom of Great Britain and _Northern_ Ireland". What the hell was China attempting to imply with a header like that? Was he involved in some fishy business with Ireland—China, who had refused contact with every single European nation he came across, was striking deals with _Ireland_? That and the penmanship—it was a lot less rigid, a lot more free-form, like the childish scribblings of a younger America.

"You...you're fucking hilarious man, did...you know?"

He froze—China was moaning something in his half-awake state—and he was _laughing_, even if his laughter was broken down by coughs and sputtering. Why he was moaning in English no one knew...

"...tea, opium, it's all...it's all the same shit, right? They all belong in the ocean, they all belong in the fucking ocean...leave it to the sharks to get high, man."

"_Angleterre_," France muttered, grinning, "you'd best check the harbor."

England cursed. What was it with nations and dumping his plants into the sea?

—

**notes:**

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed! Reviews are very much appreciated! :)

- In the first Opium War, Lin Zexu did indeed dispose of opium by dumping it into the sea. And I think most people know that the Boston Tea Party involved the colonists dumping tea into Boston harbor.

- French sailors were very into opium, having picked up the habit in French Indochina.

- There's a restaurant in Southern California called Chinois that specializes in French/Chinese fusion cuisine. Supposedly it's rather famous (and of course, California cuisine is pretty much fusion fusion everywhere)...

- _jiàozi - _轿子 - a type of sedan where the carried sit in a carriage that's carried by people  
- _fǎlánxī -_ 法兰西 - France's full name, the other was an abbreviation

- Opium tea is very much possible and has relatively strong effects. So does eating opium, although it does take a while (as the opium needs to digest first) for the morphine (the active ingredient in the poppy) to take action. Opium also tastes bitter, apparently.

- Also, I think I've done way too much research on opium and its effects. So much that when my mom called the other day to ask about _niangao _for Chinese New Year, I replied, "Ah yes, please bring me the opiu—uhhh." Luckily, she didn't really hear me. :P

- More on the happenings of the 1856 election/what China's doing next chapter.


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